Fantine's Recovery
by MMcIntyre
Summary: An AU where Fantine recovers from her illness and goes to get Cosette, with some help from Valjean.
1. Chapter 1

Montreuil-sur-Mer; she'd been told there was work here, and that had turned out to be true. But standing on the threshold of the factory, waiting in a line with complete strangers in the cold outside the factory, alone in this crowd, Fantine started to doubt her choice. When would she see her daughter again? How would she adjust to it here, to a strange place and to her separation from Cosette?

The factory bell rang, and she wandered in. "New workers over here," shouted a voice. Fantine pushed through the torrent of women flooding into the factory, and found her way to a desk, where she presented papers and signed in. As she was finishing, a man came up behind her, dressed like a bourgeois, with a neat cravate and a pressed coat.

"And these would be our new employees?" he asked, startling Fantine. She jumped a little, making one of the lines in the "x" she was marking in lieu of a signature run off the page. The man immediately noticed. "I'm sorry to have startled you. And what's your name?"

"Fantine. Monsieur," she added the monsieur hastily, self-conscious.

"That's a nice name, miss. Well, I'm sure that you'll be a great addition to the factory." He gave her a gentle smile. "Well, I have to get going." He tipped his hat, then left quickly.

She finished her form, then turned it in. The foreman stamped it. "See the boss already likes you."

"Who is he?" The question was out before she could even contemplate whether or not it was rude.

"Oh, Monsieur Madeleine. He owns the factory, and he's the mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer. So he's pretty famous around here."

_Well, at least he seems kind. It shouldn't be too bad, working for him..._

* * *

It was a rather usual arrest; Javert, while on duty, saw a prostitute attack some pretentious bourgeois and scratch his face. That was all Javert saw, so of course it was his job to arrest the little wretch for violence.

With a sigh, Javert grabbed the prostitute by the arm, and led her towards the police station as gently as possible while still keeping up enough a of a pace to outrun the jackals that observed the whole scene. She didn't put up any resistance, she just trailed after the inspector like a balloon gets dragged around after the child carrying it. Fantine - he knew her name, they'd had run-ins before - had apparently attacked some bourgeois. The crowd even had the nerve to stand in front of them, eyes wide as if to drink in all the schadenfreude they possibly could. Javert shoved them aside - "move it" - without even an attempt at politeness, striding through the police station's entrance and right to his office, towards the back of the building.

Javert pried the slightly-rusted window open just a bit, trying to air out the smell of urban muck and the intangible, indescribable odour of sickness without letting the winter chill into the room. The miserable wreck he'd dragged in after him was huddled in the corner, not crying but shaking a bit, as if wracked by phantom sobs. "Well? Move closer to the heater. And for chrissake, take a chair, woman."

The prostitute, still quaking like a leaf, grabbed the one spare chair in the office and settled onto its very edge, as if poised to go running off at any moment. Javert closed the door. The interview shouldn't take long. He whipped an arrest report out of his drawer and began to scratch the details onto the sheet in blue ink. Fantine, meanwhile, started bawling and telling him her sob story. It was nearly incoherent, interrupted with coughs and sniffs. The woman was obviously a wreck; Javert knew he couldn't simply leave her on the street, and of course, she had disrupted the peace... so, reasoned Javert, it was off to a prison infirmary. He couldn't do any better for her or for justice.

Fantine finished her story. Javert felt compelled to answer. God, she was staring at him now, eyes like a kitten's staring up into his. She'd been begging, he realized, registering what he'd only half listened to. With a sigh, he decided to tell her the truth. "I can't do anything about it. No one can."

He led her out of his office and was marching her towards the cell block when a call from the front of the station stopped him. "Javert."

"Monsieur le maire?" It was none other than the mayor of M-sur-M, a rather determined look on his face. Javert was a little surprised and more than a bit confused by his arrival; why was he here now? But the mayor's presence seemed to have a far more intense effect on the prostitute he'd been booking. She drew herself up to her full, rather unimpressive stature, and shouted with vehemence, "Ah! So you're that mayor." With this, Fantine spat with volume and accuracy, right in the mayor's face. With a strange look that was half-calm and half-strained, the mayor wordlessly wiped off his face.

"Let this woman go."

The woman practically threw herself onto Javert, begging for him to save her from Madeleine, of all things. Chalking it up to her fever, he ignored this, instead concentrating on Madeleine. "You can't just let her go. She'll die in some gutter or continue to pollute the streets – it's better if she's in custody."

"She doesn't deserve jail."

"That's the court's decision, not yours." Javert jerked his right arm as if he was going to push the hapless woman off him, but, realizing that this would likely send tiny Fantine flying, he contented himself with a mere scowl directed at the mayor. "It's absolutely unjust if I let some of these -" he paused, trying to find a polite word - "streetwalkers continue and arrest others. This woman has received enough warnings. And now she's shown potential for violence."

"I know you're fair, Monsieur l'Inspecteur -" Fantine continued her soft, whining pleas, but the men argued over her.

"When unfairly assaulted," rejoined the mayor. "Anyone has potential for violence when forced into that situation. Might as well call everyone violent."

"Animals lash out when they're assaulted or insulted; people should have better sense. There's no good excuse for violence in the streets."

"But surely there's something you're willing to do for her. I know you're an honest man, Javert." Now the prostitute's voice rose, an almost screechy pitch like a panicked bird; the mayor was practically yelling over her.

"That's exactly why I do not play favourites. She'll go to a prison's infirmary; there she'll wait for trial, and then serve whatever sentence the judge deems necessary. It satisfies justice and keeps her from dying on the street." His tone brooked no argument, and his words were punctuated by yet another confused sob from Fantine, interrupting her pitiful monologue.

Madeleine's expression went from patient and pitying to just a little irritated, but his tone of voice remained soft and calming, like a priest visiting a hospital. "Can there be a third option? At least I can take her to the private hospital I fund? Just until she's healed, then you can have her." _I'll support her daughter while she's in jail, if that's what it comes to, _thought Madeleine. _You stubborn, stubborn man, Javert._

"No. I can't spare anyone to guard her."

"Guard her? She can't walk, let alone escape. We both know all too well that the prison system's conditions are not fit for the sick, not even the infirmaries..." Madeleine trailed off, realizing he'd just referred to his own knowledge of the prison system; Valjean knew those things, but Madeleine wasn't supposed to. He just hoped that the inspector would put it down to an assumption or hearsay.

"There are those who would help her escape." Javert's tone was dangerous. _Is he implying that I would? _wondered Madeleine.

And so the conversation continued. Javert reminded the mayor of what his detainee had done, the mayor insisted that her "victim" had been in the wrong, Javert reminded him that she'd just insulted him. And so on. Eventually Madeleine was forced to pull rank on the insistent policeman, to the point of naming specific laws that allowed him to do so. "Release her. Consider it an order from the mayor." The woman in question had stopped her monologue a few moments ago, and now she just sort of swayed on the spot between the arguing officials, obviously extremely confused.

Javert sighed. "Monsieur le maire." It was said with resignation and maybe a little befuddlement. Why was the mayor so interested in this, this – common whore? He retreated to his office, not sure what was going on but completely certain that it was no longer his problem. Madeleine's odd charity cases were not his business.

Madeleine, in the meantime, had gently collected Fantine into his arms, half-carrying the woman along with him. "Sh, sh," he soothed. "I'm taking you to hospital. Relax, you're in good hands."

* * *

"Monsieur, monsieur, I'm so sorry for spitting at you, I hope you forgive me. I insulted you, the mayor of all people -"

"Think nothing of it, you were feverish. But may I say that you have fantastic aim."

"You argued for me at the police station. And that's how I repay you, monsieur, I'm so sorry."

"Think nothing of it." His tone was kind yet insistent. He gently pushed her shoulder to encourage her to lay back, and she did, satisfied that it was behind them but still embarrassed. "I'm sorry, but I have to go deal with something." Fantine almost objected – she wanted more company, to thank him more, to get to know the one who'd helped her so much - but it occurred to her that it would be rude to take Madeleine's time as well as his charity. After all, he was the mayor. "You're in good hands with the sisters."

"I'm in good hands with you, Monsieur," she said earnestly.

He just smiled and tipped his hat, then turned to leave.

"Monsieur!" Madeleine turned back, eyebrows raised like a question. She didn't want to be demanding, but she had to ask this one thing. "When can I see Cosette?"

"Very soon, mademoiselle. As soon as you are well."

Their next few meetings went like this as well. Madeleine started to spend more and more time with Fantine, talking, sharing meals or just sitting together as he read or caught up on work. Usually, their time was filled with amicable conversation; they got to know each other. For example, Madeleine learned that Fantine hated eating fish; she found that he loved potatoes. He was skilled at chess, she liked card games. The mayor discovered that Fantine crinkled her nose when she was happy; she found out that Madeleine tended to look at his watch when he was nervous, or avoiding a question. He did seem to avoid the occasional query about his past, but she mainly found this out because there was one question he always seemed to dodge, yet she asked it at the end of every meeting: "When can I see Cosette again?"

The answer was always an equivocation. "When the doctor says you're fully healed." When this became closer and closer as the physician's reports steadily improved, the response changed to "When the time is right."

By early March, Fantine was almost well again. Her cough had slowed, her breathing improved. The doctor took Madeleine aside, told him that she would be healthy enough to go in a week or less, but not to tell her, as excitement could cause a relapse.

Yet she got excited nonetheless. The mayor left for several days, without giving anybody many details. Fantine, half out of hope and half as an assumption, figured that he couldn't be doing anything else but getting Cosette for her. What else could it be? Fantine was practically humming with excitement by the time Madeleine returned to see her again.

* * *

And two days later, she was still thrilled.

He returned, without Cosette. When Fantine asked about her daughter, and where the mayor had been, again he deflected. He just wanted to see her, he said, because he'd miss her.

"Why will you miss me?"

"I haven't been fully honest with you, my good mademoiselle, and I'm sorry for that. But I want to say goodbye, and see you, because it makes me happy to see you healthy. I swear you'll get to see Cosette."

It was good to know that he was as fond of her as she was of him, she thought, but before she could get out another question as to what was going on, footsteps, heavy, quick and loud, caught her ear. The door burst open, admitting a familiar policeman. He looked like six feet of pure anger – fists balled up, face red, he came into the room with his finger pointed straight at her. Wait, no, straight at Monsieur Madeleine. What was this?

"Monsieur, I did nothing wrong," shouted Fantine, more out of habit than anything.

"Does somebody have a guilty conscious?" asked Javert, his eyebrows rising. "No, I'm here to do something that should have been done long, long ago. Jean Valjean, you're under arrest." Javert's look of satisfaction reminded Fantine of a cat swallowing a canary. _Who is Jean Valjean?_ she wondered. _Has Javert gone mad?_

He proceeded to arrest the mayor. Arrest the mayor? Not her? The yelling match between the men made as little sense to her as the last one had; this time because of what was being said, as she was perfectly alert. The inspector kept calling the mayor "Valjean." A startled and pale Fantine found her voice quickly enough to interrupt the dispute, managing to shout over both of them. "Who is Valjean?" It wasn't directed to either of them, as if she was talking to the walls or herself.

Javert, however, answered in what could only be described as a growl. "This man is Jean Valjean. This old convict, who broke parole years ago. He's been deceiving us all with false names and a hidden history -"

She felt like she could faint, but of course that would only make things worse. She blinked, as if clearing her vision could clear her understanding. It did nothing.

Valjean – apparently that was his name, his real name – leaned towards Fantine. She started to move away from him, this familiar stranger. To spend two months with a person, and not know their real name – but the look on his face, earnest and honest as an open book, encouraged her to listen. _Trust me._ She could tell that he wanted her to trust him despite what others said of him; just how he had trusted her in the police station that January. So she returned that favour by leaning towards him, listening to a brief whisper: "Meet me at my house. Eleven o'clock. We'll go get Cosette immediately."

_Why should I believe him this time? He's been saying that for two months. _But something, she wasn't sure what, compelled Fantine to trust this man's word yet again. Perhaps it simply that this was her last chance to make it to Montfermeil, see Cosette again: she had no money, and who else would pay her way? What did she have to lose, save the last shred of her pride?

* * *

So she showed up, and waited for him at his home, along with Soeur Simplice, her nurse from the hospital, who hovered over her nervously, claiming that excitement could cause her to relapse. She waved the nun off impatiently; it was worth it, for a chance at seeing her daughter. Anything would be. Valjean was at least good to some of his word, and appeared at the promised hour. He was barely in the door when Fantine, not able to contain her mix of curiosity and anger, started in on him. "You have a lot of explaining to do, Monsieur -"

He was obviously not used to being talked to like this, but if he was shocked, he hid it well. Simplice didn't – her look of horror seemed almost exaggerated. "Yes, I certainly do, my dear Fantine. I hope you'll forgive me for lying to you."

"I want the truth. Are you really Jean Valjean? An escaped criminal?"

Sheepishly, the mayor replied, "well, not really escaped. They let me out on purpose." There was a dead silence in the room, so Valjean continued just to fill it. "I broke parole, yes. And my name is really Jean Valjean. Please understand that there's a lot to this story – I wasn't arrested for anything big in the first place, I stole a loaf of bread to try and feed my sister's children. They were starving, you see, and I was desperate. I was sentenced to five years in the bagne de Toulon, but it was extended because I tried to escape. Well, repeatedly, but at that time I wasn't really myself – prison life, it knocks everything that's human right out of a person." He had a faraway look in his eye. "When I got out, I was rejected by most people, and for good reason. The bagne had made me cruel. I was a nasty piece of work, angry at the world. I don't know where I would be if a true friend had not shown me mercy and kindness, had not forgiven me." He sighed. "And now I ask your forgiveness."

Fantine didn't quite know how to respond. That was quite a story, and she somehow felt that it was true. If he couldn't effectively lie about when he'd get Cosette for her, how could he sell this so well? It wouldn't add up. And so, who was she, a prostitute, to judge someone who had done something to save his family? It was quite similar to her, really, and she wanted to somehow express that she got it. But before she could collect her thoughts to respond, there was a knocking on the door. Valjean waved to Fantine to move into a nearby room. It seemed to be his office, with a paper-strewn desk and a large armchair. They waited in silence to see who was there as Valjean's portiere answered the door. "Bonsoir, madame. I am here looking for the convict Valjean -"

"Quickly, quickly. We need to hide from them, here..." he pressed her towards the corner of the room, and she went along with it. The inspector's long shadow appeared before he did, filling the doorway. Simplice went to the office door, and met the policeman when he came toward that end of the house. With a sort of mandatory politeness that lacked any warmth, Simplice answered his questions. The final one was the real turning point. "Is Valjean here?" Meanwhile, Fantine and Valjean were pressed up together, chest to chest and face to face, in the shadowiest corner of the room.

Valjean was sure he was done for. Here was the most honest woman he had ever met, and her honesty would demand that she tell this face of vengeance that called himself Javert that he was here. Her virtue would demand that he be cast into darkness again; kind of ironic. He concentrated on stillness, waiting for the worst.

"No, I haven't seen him."

It crossed Fantine's mind to scream, to reveal the sister's lie. But what good would it do? Again, she would lose her chance to get Cosette back. That's what she told herself, but on a certain level, she didn't really want to think about what would happen to Valjean if she screamed. Why condemn a good man?

"Bonsoir, soeur."

Javert was gone. But his shadow would follow them for a long time.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN:** I know it's been forever. But here's part two of three, anyways. I was at a pretty busy, secluded job for the summer then got clobbered with things to catch up on when I got home, for what it's worth. Excuses, excuses. So, Chapter 2 - In Which This Shipping Fic Actually Gets Shippy.

The ride to Montfermeil was anything but pleasant; the road was bumpy and long, the diligence Valjean had hired with some cash he had stowed away – just in case, he explained, mildly embarrassed by his justified paranoia – small and uncomfortable, with hard seats and little breathing room. Maybe it only felt close and warm in there, Fantine reflected, because of the silence that sprawled between her and Valjean like an overgrown cat, large, ill-tempered and completely still. She had many questions, of course, but few of them were easy or simple and she had little energy for further intrigue. They'd just escaped the police together, for God's sake. That was all the excitement she could comfortably take. Actually, she wasn't particularly comfortable with that. Say what you want about her, the old her, who had real work; she may have been poor, she may have been tricked by the Thenardiers, but she had a real job. She had been an honest woman, law-abiding and peaceful. Now look at her. A whore, running away with a convict she barely knew. One who happened to be a reputable businessman and mayor, but still. He was a living paradox, sitting beside her in the dark, overheated carriage: a convict in charge of a town, a thief beloved by all, an outcast who had become not only part of the community but a pillar of it. If that was possible, she decided, anything was, for her and for anyone. Maybe that was why she wanted so badly to believe him.

Then again, the drawn and uncomfortable look on Valjean's face told her that he was uncomfortable as she was with all this. "I'm very sorry, mademoiselle."

"Sorry for what?"

"For disappointing you. For not being who – what – you expected."

She sat in silence. How could she respond to that? Her first instinct was to make him feel better, to say that she still liked him. But what if it made him feel condescended to?

"I suppose that what I should really be sorry for is the rules concerning – um, personal conduct. The ones I put in place at the factory," he continued. Was it just the lack of light, or was he blushing at the very mention of a sexual topic?

"Why should you be sorry for those? You meant to keep a moral standard." She sighed. A standard that she had long ago failed to keep.

"I realized things weren't ideal because of those rules. Your earlier mistakes shouldn't disadvantage you, let alone make you destitute."

"I can't consider it a mistake. It gave me Cosette, right?" It came out of her mouth easily, as if she was back in the hospital, talking to M. Madeleine, the one she knew. But this was still him, she supposed. Or you could say that Madeleine had never existed. "Something that brought me my daughter can't possibly be a mistake."

"You're right – I should have looked at it that way. God must have willed it, to bring you your little girl." He smiled for some reason, his faith in this view of things complete. "And maybe He brought me to you, to bring her back to you."

"I should have looked at this -" she motioned all around her - "that way."

"There is always a reason." Fantine turned those words over in her mind. She wanted to have faith, the way Valjean seemed to, but somehow, she didn't feel fully convinced. What kind of plan would bring her to that horrible place she'd been, sick and desperate in front of the cold and unforgiving law? Her daughter ill and fading, miles away from her? She pushed the thought away, and in a few minutes she managed to fall asleep.

* * *

A hand shook her shoulder, yanking Fantine from slumber. Reflexively, she yelled, and lashed out in the general direction of the hand, hitting the bearded face of some man – no, Valjean.

"I am so sorry, Mademoiselle." Valjean was the one who had shaken her. They were still in the carriage, parked outside an inn she'd recognize anywhere – Cosette's inn! She must be just inside!

"And monsieur, I'm the one who should be sorry." She didn't know why her reaction had been so violent, but it had been her first instinct. Probably all those nervous evenings on the streets of Montreuil. "We're here!"

"Yes, I think this is the right inn. _Le cabaret du sergeant de Waterloo._" A sign annonced that very name, painted with an image of a soldier "After you, Mademoiselle."

She was here. Finally here. After all this time, Fantine was ready to walk into that building and see Cosette. It was almost too good to believe. She ran up to the front door and knocked, without so much as waiting for Valjean.

"Welcome to the -" the man who came to the door was a short, rumpled thing. He smelled of ale and looked as if he hadn't washed in a week, which made his ridiculously colourful clothing and overdone jewelry all the more humorous. "Well, well, well. If it isn't the street rat's debtor mother. I expect my payment, missus." He crossed his arms and gave a grin that showed his rotten teeth. Fantine recoiled at his breath.

His wife bustled in behind him, probably upon hearing "payment" mentioned. She was a massive woman, and blocked the entire doorway on her own. It was a funny contrast: humble but neat Fantine, tiny and innocent in comparison to the giantess and the thief. Valjean had came up behind her as she told the unsavoury pair, "Yes, of course I'm going to pay you what you're due."

"Oh, got a man to pay for you?" Asked Mme. Thernardier. "Well, come on in."

"Yes, yes. Have a drink, take a chair," the man started, pulling out a seat for Valjean but not Fantine. "Allow me to go get the girl and the bills, yes?"

"I know this type," Valjean whispered to Fantine as they sat down. "I'll pay up." She smiled gratefully. Apparently he really was going to live up to all his promises. They stayed in awkward silence, watched by Mme. Thernardier. Fantine could almost see the gears grinding away in the woman's head, trying to figure out what her relationship with Valjean was, most likely jumping to the filthiest conclusions right off the bat. Oh, well. Fantine was used to that kind of thing. Valjean probably was too, come to think of it.

Then M. Thernardier came back in with Cosette, and it was all drowned out by joy. _It was worth it. Every moment was so worth it, just for this._ "My little Cosette!"

"Maman!"

"I love you so much, dear." She just

"Very touching. Touching doesn't come cheap," began the innkeeper. "Especially not little, um, gems like our dear Cosette." He came up behind the mother and daughter and scooped little Cosette up, hugging her. She squirmed, trying to get out of his grasp. "I've been like a papa, haven't I, my little dear?"

In reply, she hit him on the arm. Valjean stifled a laugh. "Well, monsieur, that's very good, but -"

"Yes, yes. Let's get down to business. I think that, by my humble calculations," the innkeeper began, dragging a beer-stained notebook out of his back pocket, "it should be 40 francs. Minimum."

"That's a year's wages for some workers," countered Valjean.

"Medicines are so pricey, sir -"

"She's so thin. But she's not sick," observed Fantine, turning back to Thernardier.

"Well, we have a humble existence here, but we have shared all we have, taken care of her in sickness -"

Valjean's expression darkened. "Have you been lying to her about her daughter?"

"Cool it, Monsieur. Not at all. She got better, that's it," rejoined Thernardier, taking on an exaggerated tone of insult and hurt.

Valjean merely made a noise like he was thinking, but Fantine had spent months worrying herself sick and scraping for money. She wasn't going to just let it go – this scum had robbed her! "What happened to the money for dresses? She's dressed in rags and has no shoes!"

"Hey, she went through them very quickly. Rugrats are tough on clothing. Little Colette -"

"It's Cosette, with an s, and that's bull-"

"What Fantine means to say is that the standard of care for Cosette" - he overpronounced the s - "obviously doesn't match up to the amount that has been paid. We would like to see some receipts," Valjean interjected smoothly.

_He's trying to keep this from coming to blows. Well, it damn well should._ "We're not giving you another sou until you account for all the money I have sent!"

"Listen, woman. We didn't keep all your _maudit_ records," interrupted Mme. Thernardier. "I'm going to make this very simple for you. You'll pay the exact sum my husband has asked for, or you're not getting your precious little girl."

"You've used my child for labour! I would bet every sou I have that you've been abusing my girl -"

"Nonsense! You hysterical whore -"

Valjean stood up. Despite the fact that we was neither tall nor normally intimidating, the women became silent and stared at him. His features set in an inscrutable expression of seemingly unforced calm, he said, "Here's your payment. Take it or leave it. Fantine, we're going." He clapped a bag of coins down on the table, punctuating his last sentence. He walked out without turning around, trailed quickly by

"Goodbye, Courgette," shouted Thernardier after the little one.

The trio continued walking – quickly - while they talked."Thank you, Monsieur. I owe you so much – if you hadn't paid a ridiculous sum, if

"Please, call me Jean," replied Valjean. "And you can call me Jean, too, Mademoiselle Cosette," he added, patting the little girl's shoulder affectionately. "Actually, why don't you two catch up while I go get something? Wait here."

He ran off into a nearby store, then emerged a few moments later, holding a little blonde doll, which he showed to Cosette. "I got you a little present, Cosette. Do you like her?"

By way of reply, Cosette grabbed the doll eagerly and hugged it to herself.

"What do we say when we get a gift, dear?" Fantine chided her daughter gently.

"Thank you, thank you very much." She gave Valjean a big hug. "Is Jean my new Papa?"

Fantine and Valjean looked at each other, dumbfounded. "Um, well."

"I would love to be, Cosette," said Valjean, weighing his words carefully. If Fantine found this to be too much, an intrusion, he didn't want to force her to disappoint Cosette in the process.

"Yes. Yes, he is," said Fantine, looking far away as she said it.

_Look at us, walking along like this. People would take us for a little family, out for a stroll, _thought Valjean. _No. I shouldn't let myself hope for so much... but, still..._

* * *

They agreed to go to Paris. It had been Fantine's idea to live in the centre of the city, so that she could search for work sewing or in a workshop. To blend in among the movement and the hustle of the city, she claimed. Valjean could tell that she still loved the place, even if her time there had ended badly.

The ride to Paris was much better, for Valjean at least. The daylight part of the ride passed with little children's games and pleasant conversation between the trio. Valjean found Cosette's imagination and sense of fun so delightful – he literally couldn't remember being this happy. Eventually, Cosette fell asleep between the two adults, who kept looking at her as if she was their own little miracle. On an impulse, Valjean offered his hand to Fantine. He didn't really think about it – if he had, he probably would have gotten nervous and not done it – but she took it. _Just like a family._

The diligence ground to a halt and they got out. "Let's look for somewhere to stay for the night." Fantine nodded sleepily. He picked Cosette up without waking her and started out into the city.

"I remember this area. Let's go down this street, there's an inn around here somewhere. I think." It had been years, maybe she was wrong. But how else would they find something? It was double fare if they asked the diligence driver to take them further, the money was running low.. they would just have to search. In a place as busy as Paris, there was always somewhere to stay. Valjean shrugged – He had decided to give her what she wanted. So the little group carried on, moving in silence through the warren of streets that made up the outskirts of Paris. It seemed to Valjean like it could go on forever, all shadowy lanes and dark paving stones and stone buildings. Maybe it was that he was tired, but it felt like wandering along in a dream.

"Halt. Police." The call made Valjean pause. It was a voice he would recognize anywhere. _Javert._ Valjean's head swivelled around reflexively, a prisoner answering to his guard. Yes, it was Javert. But he was calling to someone else, a drunk who had been running down the street. A look of understanding passed between him and Fantine, then she shook her daughter awake.

"We need you to walk," she whispered. "Be silent."

Valjean muttered a prayer under his breath, simultaneously pulling his hat down over his face.

A few moments later, a shadow seemed to follow them. Valjean's heart skipped a beat. He would be dragging Cosette and Fantine down with him, if he didn't get away. But that was if he was really spotted – maybe Javert had been preoccupied, maybe he hadn't glanced in the right direction – but it was Javert, Javert saw everything, and Valjean knew in some silent, instinctive part of his being that he had been seen, like a rabbit sensing the dog watching him. The family continued across a bridge, hastily paying the toll man, and continued to wander through the streets. Yet his nervousness just wouldn't abate.

He scooped the little girl up in his arms, carrying her down the street and gaining speed. Fantine kept up, but with an obvious effort. Hoofbeats rang out from a few hundred metres behind Valjean, closer by the second, and he hugged Cosette as tight as he could, terrified of dropping the little girl. He dashed as fast as he could, slipping into the first alley he could find with Fantine hot on his heels.

_Oh, dieu non._ A dead end. What now? Thinking fast, Valjean scooped Cosette up and boosted her onto the top of the wall. Her little arms barely reached as she jumped for the ledge about half a metre over her head, but she grabbed on and clambered over. "Like climbing a tree," she called down, totally ignorant of how her voice could betray her guardians. Fantine was the next up, and she hushed her daughter, lying flat against the wall. The hoofbeats were ever closer – Valjean took a running leap onto the wall, managing to grab on, and with Fantine's help, pull himself so that he was lying flat beside her atop the ledge.

"24601!" Javert's voice echoed through the streets, chilling the adults to the bone. Fantine lay there in total silence, staring up at the impassive stars, listening hard to hear if the merciless pursuer was still coming – but the hoofbeats grew fainter, and there was silence like a tomb. Fantine managed to breathe again, letting out a deep sigh of relief. Fantine realized, as they lay up there in the darkness, that Valjean's hand had been clamped tight around her arm the whole time. Her first instinct was to jerk away, but somehow she didn't. She heard laughter, only realizing that it was her own a few moments later.

"What's funny?" A rushed whisper.

"Nothing, really. Funny-odd more than funny-humorous."

"This is very odd," he agreed. "So odd."

Odder still was that a nunnery lay on the other side of the wall, and that the caretaker at the nunnery – an elder by the name of Fauchelevant - knew Valjean. He explained, in hushed and reverent tones, that Monsieur le Maire had saved his life back in Montreuil-sur-Mer.

"God rewards good deeds," commented Valjean. "It's his plan. This nunnery will be a good home, won't it? At least for a while."

"Yes. But still, it's quite amazing."

He nodded, looking pensive. "Yes."

* * *

Time at the nunnery passed surprisingly quickly. Fantine found that she enjoyed life there, getting to do productive work alongside the sisters. The place was calm and quiet, and Cosette was attending the convent's school – she was a very quick study and progressing very well. The nuns did complain that she was a bit loud, energetic during classes and constantly chatty. Fantine worried about her daughter, like all mothers. Her progress delighted Valjean. Valjean worked as a second caretaker, and Fantine cooked and ran errands for the nuns. It was quiet, in a good way; the kind of quiet that allows space to think. Fantine and Valjean settled into a comfortable routine, working most of the day, and taking a walk in the garden after putting Cosette to bed. One evening was a little different, though.

Valjean leaned towards her, his hand on her shoulder, getting closer, going for a kiss – she jerked away, without though, out of pure instinct.

"I'm sorry. It just reminded me of -"

He knew what she meant without explanation. "That was not my intent at all, Mademoiselle. I am – I try to be – different."

"I know. I know you're different, I appreciate that about you. I know this is not – not that." She sighed deeply. "But still." She knew intellectually that this was Jean – the gentle, kind, caring man who had done everything for her, that she appreciated and cared for in many ways – but still, on a reflexive, unconscious level, the past still burned her. She still jerked away from his warmth, mistaking it for the heat that had burned her as a young woman and again in Montrueil.

Valjean apologized profusely. "I didn't mean to pressure you at all. I beg your pardon, please forget it even happened."


End file.
